


Sweeter Than Roses

by per_mare_ad_astra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: F/M, Flowers, Fluff, Ridiculous amounts of flirting, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/per_mare_ad_astra/pseuds/per_mare_ad_astra
Summary: “Roses are… romantic?” Daphne offered.“Knowing a girl’s favourite flower is more romantic,” Astoria countered.Daphne rolled her eyes. “Well, how are they supposed to know if I don’t tell them? Should I put up a sign? Or write it on my forehead? ‘Daphne Greengrass likes bright yellow begonias that clash horribly with her hair’?”“If they really like you,” Astoria said simply, “they’ll figure it out on their own.”





	Sweeter Than Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I know Valentine's Day was two days ago, but you know what? Time isn't real ❤️

“Roses, roses, roses… Ooooh, look— _more_ roses.”

“Don’t poke fun, Tori.”

Astoria pursed her lips to hold back a laugh. As soon as Daphne’s gaze met hers, however, they both dissolved into giggles for the third time that morning.

It had been charming at first. As soon as Daphne had sunk into her preferred seat in the kitchen, a tawny owl had swooped in through the open window, dropped a bouquet of vibrant red roses on her lap, and promptly left. The sender had been none other than Theodore Nott, and Astoria hadspent a good five minutes teasing her sister over the blush that had bloomed in her cheeks. And then another bouquet had arrived. And then another… and another.

Daphne had always been more popular than she would have liked. Even during their Hogwarts years, countless roses had been given to her on Valentine’s Day: some boys had preferred to remain anonymous and had simply owled them to her, while others had been brave enough to present them to her in person.

Astoria had always been overlooked, but she couldn’t say she envied her sister.

“What am I supposed to do with them?” Daphne said in exasperation, once she’d recovered from her giggle fit. “Twelve bouquets… I don’t even know half of these men.” She snatched the nearest card and narrowed her eyes at it. “I mean, who’s Atticus Rowle? Have _you_ met him?”

Astoria shook her head, then smiled wickedly. “Perhaps you’ll meet him later, at the party,” she teased. “And you can thank him for his oh-so-thoughtful and oh-so-original gift…”

Daphne sighed and seemed to deflate like a balloon.“I really don’t want to interact with guests this evening,” she said morosely, staring at the depths of her teacup. “What was Mother _thinking_ , organising a party today?”

“Do you think she’ll believe me if I tell her I’m feeling ill?” Astoria sighed dramatically, leaning back and resting her wrist against her forehead. “Being the cursed Greengrass is so _exhausting_.”

Daphne chucked a handful of rose petals at her. “Don’t be morbid, Tori. And don’t you dare leave me alone.”

Astoria stuck her tongue out at her, then grinned. She liked her sister best on mornings like this, when she couldn’t be bothered to look decent and just stumbled into the kitchen with her blonde hair unbound and rumpled, wearing a Holyhead Harpies t-shirt she’d stolen from her. “You won’t be alone. You’ll be surrounded by your dozens of admirers and I’ll be left moping in a corner.”

“Ha, not likely,” Daphne said, snorting. “Your _boyfriend’s_ coming, and you’ll try to sneak away with him as soon as Mother’s looking the other way. I know you, little sister.”

Well, she wasn’t wrong.

Astoria smiled sweetly at her, then went back to buttering her toast. Her eyes flickered to the bouquets every now and then, and she watched as Daphne tried to put them all in a neat pile, which didn’t seem to be going too well.

“This is ridiculous,” her sister huffed eventually. She shoved half of the bouquets at Astoria. “Here, you can have these ones.”

“Ah, no.” Astoria pushed one away with the tip of her finger. “I’d rather have nothing than have roses, thanks.”

No one had ever sent her roses. She'd never had admirers, let alone boyfriends—though that had changed recently, of course. It suddenly occurred to her that _Draco_ might give her flowers _._ That was the sort of thing a boyfriend did, wasn’t it? But he didn’t strike her as someone who’d wait until that specific date to show her he loved her. He did that every day, in his own quiet way. A gift of roses and chocolates, though sweet, would mean less than all of the other things he’d given her: special pencils for her sketches, a book he’d seen her leafing through in Flourish and Blotts, little things that she needed or had taken a fancy to.

But still… It would be nice, she supposed, to receive flowers just this once. Just like Daphne. Even roses would be acceptable, despite the fact that she found them dreadfully boring.

A petal had fallen into her coffee mug. She fished it out, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger gingerly, and wrinkled her nose at it. “I can’t believe they’ve _all_ picked roses. What are the odds?”

“Roses are… romantic?” Daphne offered.

“Knowing a girl’s favourite flower is more romantic,” Astoria countered.

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Well, how are they supposed to know if I don’t tell them? Should I put up a sign? Or write it on my forehead? ‘Daphne Greengrass likes bright yellow begonias that clash horribly with her hair’?”

“If they _really_ like you,” Astoria said simply, “they’ll figure it out on their own.”

 

* * *

 

They were always the same, these parties.

“You’re looking rather pale, Astoria. Are you well?”

“That shade of blue looks _lovely_ on you.”

“I must say, you and Daphne have become quite the beautiful young ladies. Best to make use of that while you still can…”

“Are you still working in that new Ministry office? A clever girl like you shouldn’t be wasting her talent on _Muggle-borns_ …”

She smiled and laughed and tried to be as gracious as she’d been taught to be, though it got harder every time. As much as she enjoyed talking to people, hearing the same old empty words and backhanded compliments grew tiring after a while.

Catching a glimpse of platinum hair out of the corner of her eye was like a breath of fresh air. She felt herself relax instantly, and a smile bloomed on her lips before she’d even caught his eye. After promising the Rosier twins, who were only five and insisted on playing with ‘cousin Toria’, that she’d find them later, she carefully manoeuvred her way around the foyer, gathering her long cobalt robes in one hand so as to stop people from stepping on them.

Draco saw her approach, and a small smile played at the corner of his mouth as he noted her disgruntled expression. He inclined his head. “Miss Greengrass.”

And just like that, her irritation melted away. “Mr Malfoy,” she greeted pompously, feeling a great deal lighter.

She barely had a moment to appreciate his midnight blue robes (a welcome change from the black he usually favoured) and the spark of amusement in his grey eyes before a nearby voice made her jump. Just a few steps away, her great-aunt Callista was complaining loudly about the décor. Astoria felt personally offended—she’d been the one who’d found a use for Daphne’s roses, which now adorned vases, curtains and the frames of various paintings, and she was more than satisfied with the result. But Callista wasn’t happy if she wasn’t complaining, so she supposed she’d done her a favour.

“You’re free to walk away, you know,” she said to Draco in an undertone. “Run while you still can.”

“And leave you alone to face _that_?” He was watching Callista with mild disgust. “You need someone to keep you sane.”

“My hero.”

Merlin, she’d missed him. She’d last seen him two days ago, but it had felt like two years—time had the habit of slowing down when they were apart and flying by whenever they saw each other. If she was quick, she could take a step closer, perhaps steal a kiss...

Someone patted her on the shoulder. “Tori, Great-aunt Callista’s driving us all mad. Be a dear and show her to the ballroom, won’t you?” Daphne kissed her on the cheek and ran off to greet the Selwyns, leaving Astoria gaping after her, stunned by the betrayal.

“Yes, that’s right, slip away and let your sister deal with her,” she muttered to herself darkly. “It’s not as if the old hag’s already been here before and is perfectly capable of finding the bloody ballroom on her own.”

Draco coughed politely, but to Astoria’s ears it sounded like a laugh. When she turned to look at him, however, he was the picture of innocence. She made a face, promised she’d come back for him as soon as she could, and left in search of her great-aunt.

Not long after that, with Callista’s perfectly manicured nails digging into her forearm, she stepped into the ballroom. She’d put roses there too. They were pretty, she supposed, though the room was stunning enough on its own and needed no additional decoration. The mirror-like marble floor,the wide windows that overlooked the gardens and offered a beautiful view of the pond, and the impressive chandeliers that gleamed with teardrop-shaped diamonds were enough to take one’s breath away. It was one of her favourite rooms in the manor. She had vague memories of her fatherbringing her here and letting her stand on his feet so he could spin her around until they both got dizzy. Unfortunately, Hector Greengrass had died soon thereafter, so she’d had to learn how to dance properly on her own. She still loved the ballroom, though, and she went there occasionally to listen to music and let herself pretend she was one of those ethereal Muggle ballerinas.

But there was no dancing for her that evening, even though she would have liked to waltz with Draco. Instead, she lingered by the windows, patiently listening to her great-aunt Callista or chatting to the few witches and wizards that approached her. She was struck, once again, by how familiar and foreign it all felt. She’d attended dozens of parties like this one throughout her life, but it had taken her years to figure out that she simply didn’t fit in, and never would. She could mingle with guests and flit from conversation to conversation like the social butterfly she was, but she wasn’t one of them. She knew they talked behind her back, too. Little Greengrass, the Muggle-lover, the cursed one. Incorrigible and odd and not worth anyone’s time—she wouldn’t last too long, anyway.

She didn’t particularly care, but it stung anyway.

Occasionally, her gaze would wander around the room until she found Draco, who appeared to be enjoying himself a great deal more than her and was in deep conversation with Blaise and Theodore—they weren’t friends, strictly speaking, but they’d bonded over a shared disdain for this sort of event. Draco still sought her out, though. She caught him looking at her more than once, and whenever she did, they gave each other small, secret smiles and carried on with whatever they were doing, waiting for the right moment to slip away.

Finally, after almost an hour of chasing after the Rosier twins, explaining to half the guests that she was quite proud of her new job at the Wizard-Muggle Relations Office, and listening to Great-aunt Callista rant about inheritance issues that she couldn't care less about, Astoria found herself free. She didn’t waste time; with quick, determined steps, she made straight for the mahogany doors that lead to the vestibule, pausing only to ‘accidentally’ bump into Draco along the way.

Nobody noticed, apart from Daphne. Her sister, who was talking a man Astoria had never seen before (was this the mysterious Atticus Rowle?), gave her a look that clearly meant ‘don’t you dare abandon me so you can go snog your boyfriend’. Astoria blew her a kiss.

The vestibule was considerably cooler and darker, for which she was grateful. She took a moment to breathe and rub the back of her neck. The sound of music and laughter grew muffled when the doors closed, until all she could hear was the echoing thud of expensive shoes hitting the marble floor. She recognised those particular footsteps, naturally, and smiled to herself before turning around.

It was hard to make out his features in the dimness, but Draco’s signature smirk was unmistakeable.

“You’re neglecting your guests, Miss Greengrass,” he drawled, coming to a stop mere inches away.

“Nonsense,” Astoria scoffed. She moved closer, until their noses were almost brushing, and looped her arms around his neck. “You’re a guest and I’m not neglecting you, am I?”

Her intentions were obvious, and yet she still heard Draco’s sharp intake of breath before she kissed him, as if she’d caught him by surprise, as if he’d hoped for a kiss but hadn’t really expected one.

She leaned back a little and looked at him, at his grey eyes and pale lashes. At the soft smile that was meant just for her. She kissed him again.

“Hello, Draco,” she whispered against his lips, savouring the freedom of saying his first name.

“Hello, Astoria,” he murmured back. Her eyelids fluttered shut as he gave her a chaste kiss, then another. It would have been easy to lose herself in it, to run her fingers through his silky hair (she’d mess up his ponytail, but she didn’t think he’d mind) and forget about everything for a little while, but this wasn’t the place for it. Even though their relationship was no secret, she didn’t want anyone to walk in on them—she’d had enough of being the main topic of interest for the Pureblood gossip mill.

She broke the kiss and took a couple of steps backwards, tugging him along. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Where are you luring me to?” he said, amused.

“You’ll see.”

She led him up the white marble stairs to the first floor, then along one of the manor’s seemingly endless corridors. It was lined with paintings of various Greengrass ancestors, and some of them smiled kindly at her as she walked past. She’d enjoyed speaking to them sometimes, before she’d gone to Hogwarts, because she’d been lonely and they all had fascinating stories to tell. She’d also liked to run from one end of the corridor to the other, sliding across the marble floor with sock-clad feet, but her mother had soon put a stop to that, insisting that Astoria was ‘too sickly’ for such things, though Astoria hadn’t really understood the Greengrass curse at that age.

They finally reached the oak doors that led to her favourite place in the manor—her refuge, in a way. She pressed her palm against the aged wood, and the doors swung open of their own accord, revealing rows and rows of books.

Winking at Draco, she stepped in.

Daphne thought the library was creepy at night, but Astoria had always found it enchanting, like something out of the fairytales she liked to read. Moonlight spilled into the room, courtesy of the wide windows that faced the gardens, and it made the silver and gold designs on certain books gleam invitingly. It was surprisingly quiet, as if the library were a world of its own, removed from the bustling activity in the floor below. Astoria liked to think it was. If she closed her eyes and breathed in, the scent of parchment and lavender could take her back to simpler days, when she’d been little and had sometimes fallen asleep on that old armchair by the Potions section, surrounded by heavy tomes that she’d used as pillows.

She waved her wand. Little pinpricks of light flew from the tip towards the many lamps spread across the room, filling it with a warm, golden glow. Satisfied with her handiwork, she wandered over the nearest table, which was littered with open books and rolls of parchment that she _probably_ should have put away, and perched herself on the edge. The feel of the aged wood beneath her palms was comforting in its familiarity.

Draco had stopped by the doorway at first and was now slowly making his way towards her, analysing his surroundings curiously. She knew he loved books as much as she did, and there were some German alchemical texts tucked away somewhere that she intended to translate and gift to him at some point, but she’d save that conversation for later. While he examined the nearest shelf—the one with little grooves etched into the wood, put there by Daphne and her to mark their height throughout their childhood—Astoria took the time to look at him. She admired his sharp cheekbones, his slightly pointed chin and straight nose. His hair had grown quite long now, and he wore it well. She’d always been vaguely aware of his good looks, but had found them—and most of him, really—supremely uninteresting until after the war. It was only after many conversations, the realisation that there was more to him than met the eye, and the beginnings of a crush that she’d noticed that Draco Malfoy was actually rather handsome. He had been raised to believe he was royalty, and he certainly looked the part. One could look at him and think his beauty made him cold or distant, but he was never like that with Astoria. No, he always regarded her with a spark of warmth in his stormy grey eyes, and his usually indifferent expression melted into one of genuine affection when they were together, all soft and gentle and a tiny bit curious.

“Have I got something on my face?” he asked her now, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” she said simply “I just like looking at you.”

That seemed to please him. There was a hint of smugness in his smile now. “And do you like what you see?”

Mere months ago, he never would have dared to be so forward, so… flirtatious. Draco was adorable when he was shy, but she preferred this side of him.

“Very much,” she said coyly. “You look exceptionally kissable tonight, but you’re standing so far away…” She trailed off hopefully.

He was at her side in an instant.

It was hard to believe that there had been a time when she _couldn’t_ kiss him, when she’d had to be careful with every single touch and had overthought every word and glance he’d sent her way. A relationship had seemed unthinkable, a mere dream. But now it felt completely natural, being held by him like this, one of his arms wrapped around her waist, both of her hands buried in his hair, their lips moving in a familiar dance.

He was the one to break the kiss, and he rested his forehead against hers. “You’re distracting me, Greengrass,” he chided.

“That’s sort of the point of us being here, Draco,” she pointed out.

He laughed and leaned back. His ponytail was a lost cause, but Astoria couldn’t make herself feel guilty. “I’m trying to be a good, attentive boyfriend,” he said firmly.

“And you were doing a _fantastic_ job.”

“Cheeky.” He reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her eyes. “But I’m serious. How are you? How was your day?”

And when she thought she couldn’t possibly love him more, he went and did little things like this.

“Oh, it was thrilling,” she said brightly. “I’ve spent most of it figuring out what to do with Daphne’s ludicrous amount of bouquets, but apparently my décor ideas are ‘distasteful’.”

Draco chuckled. There was plenty of space for them both on the table, but he seemed content to just stand there in front of her. “How many did she get this year?”

“Twelve.”

“The one Blaise sent her was a joke,” he informed her.

“Yes, we assumed as much when we read the accompanying limerick.” Even though it had bordered on inappropriate, it had made Daphne laugh so hard she’d almost fallen off her chair. “But still, eleven bouquets is ridiculous.”

“Did _you_ get any?” His tone was casual, as if he were inquiring about something mundane or unimportant, but a smile played at the corners of his lips. Was he teasing her?

She swung her legs back and forth, trying to hold back a grin. “No.”

Draco clicked his tongue. “The correct answer is actually ‘not yet’, Greengrass.”

“Is it?” she said playfully, tilting her head to one side.

And in the time it took her to blink, a bouquet appeared in his right hand, and he presented it to her with a bow. A huff of surprised laughter escaped her lips, but she managed to compose herself and take the flowers. For a second, she thought they were white roses, but then she noted that the shape was slightly different, that the petals were more delicate, more open. Her heart skipped a beat. She knew what they were, of course. Her family grew all sorts of flowers in the manor’s gardens, and she’d learned all of their names during long summer afternoons spent lying on the velvety grass, letting the sun soak into her skin and watching the bees fly from blossom to blossom. And that particular kind of flower was wonderfully, achingly familiar.

She took the bouquet and realised, quite suddenly, that she was blushing. She was supposed to say something clever now, or make some bold remark that would make _him_ blush, but she couldn’t find the words. And it was silly, because he’d given her gifts far more impressive than this one and she hadn’t even _wanted_ flowers, but this… this was different. She stroked the petals, marvelling at how soft they were. Lisianthus. Out of every flower he could have chosen, he’d gone for lisianthus. Did he know? No, he couldn’t…

Her eyes flickered to Draco’s. He was watching her intently, trying to gauge her reaction, brow furrowed. He’d noted her reddened cheeks and seemed surprised that he’d somehow achieved _this_. As if the idea of _him_ being the one to make Astoria Greengrass blush were inconceivable. As if he didn’t think himself capable of it.

If only he knew.

To stop herself from doing something utterly mortifying, like giggling, she blurted, “Red roses are the romantic standard, aren’t they?”

If Draco was taken aback by her abruptness, he didn’t show it. “You think roses are unoriginal,” he said simply, as if it were universally obvious.

She almost laughed. “Do I?”

“Unless I’ve completely misjudged your character, then yes, without a doubt,” he said. Then he smirked at her. “Astoria Helena Greengrass would never like something so _typical_. And you expect me to put more thought into this instead of settling for the dullest cliché in existence.”

Merlin, he knew her well. And her cheeks were probably the same colour as Daphne’s roses.

“And why this colour?” she asked. The lisianthus weren’t the pure white of freshly fallen snow—they were closer to ivory. “Why not red?”

“You hate red.”Again, no hesitation.

She blinked, surprised. “I’ve never told you that, have I?”

“You haven’t,” he admitted. “But I’ve never seen you wear it. And…” He measured his words carefully, absentmindedly twisting the ring he wore on his right hand while he did so. “I get the feeling it’s not your colour.”

Red was the colour of careless mistakes, of the Blood-Replenishing Potion she had to drink afterwards, of the nosebleeds she sometimes got as a result. Red was the colour of the pain that would seize her when she least expected it. It was a reminder of days spent in St Mungo’s, of hours spent in front of cauldrons, brewing her own medicine, her fingers stained with essence of dittany.

No, she didn’t care much for red.

And Draco knew her well enough to tell.

She was grinning from ear to ear now. Was it silly to feel so absurdly pleased over something so insignificant? She looked down at the lisianthus, feeling something warm and sweet bubble in her chest. She hadn’t expected flowers, but he’d given them to her anyway, not because he saw it as a chore to be done on that particular date, but because he’d genuinely wanted to.

Draco cupped her cheek, calling her attention to him. “Did I get it right or are you going to keep making me doubt myself?” His eyes roved over her face, searching for answers,

She leaned into his touch, feeling her heart swell. Silly, insecure boy: how could he not know that she’d love everything he gave her purely because _he_ was the giver? “Just one more question before I put you out of your misery.”

“You’re never satisfied, are you?”

“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll have to learn to live with it.”

He didn’t seem at all put off by the prospect. Quite the opposite: he was looking at her fondly, as if he could think of nothing more delightful than putting up with Astoria Greengrass’ strange quirks and endless questions. “Ask away, then.”

She took the hand that was resting against her cheek and lowered it, threading their fingers together. “Why lisianthus?” she asked.

He paused for a brief second, then shrugged. “I thought you’d like them. They suit you.”

His reply was a little took quick, a little too ambiguous. Flattering, but without substance—not his style at all. He was hiding something.

She let go of his hand so she could poke him in the chest. “You liar,” she said, amused. “They mean something, don’t they? In flower language—”

“As if you give a damn about flower language, Astoria,” he interrupted her. His pale skin was flushed pink, and she was momentarily stunned by the sight—it took a lot to fluster Draco to that extent. “What matters to you is that they’re pretty.”

“And I know you, Draco, and there’s no way you picked a flower at random,” she insisted. “You’re much too thorough for that. Why lisianthus?”

He held her gaze for a few long moments. She raised her eyebrows defiantly—if he thought he could compete with her stubbornness, he was about to be sorely disappointed. Fortunately, it didn’t take him long to concede defeat.

“Very well,” he said drily. He stood a little taller, squaring his shoulders. “There are two reasons, if you must know. The first is that I _do_ think they suit you, Astoria. They’re elegant, regal. Not as showy as roses, but just as beautiful. They remind me of you. And the second reason…” He looked down at the bouquet in her hands. “I did some research. My mother cares a lot about this sort of thing, so we have plenty of books. And I wanted to do this properly—I wanted it to _mean_ something. So I read, and I thought, and I chose.” He took one of the flowers, carefully snapping off its stem, and tucked it behind her ear. “Lisianthus symbolise gratitude. Admiration. And love, of course. What I feel for you is infinitely more complicated, but this is an accurate summary, I think.” He gave her an uncharacteristically nervous smile, which she eagerly returned.

“Thank you, Draco.” She deposited the bouquet on the table so she could hold both of his hands in hers. She wanted to say more, but words failed her. She felt… so much, so intensely. Her thumbs brushed the back of his hands. “That’s… That’s lovely.” She pursed her lips, growing increasingly frustrated with herself. She always knew what to say, and the one time she _truly_ wanted to say something, she couldn’t.

“It’s true.” He squeezed her hands gently. “As for my question…”

She relaxed slightly. This, at least, was something she could give him. “You’ll be happy to know that lisianthus are my favourite.”

He hadn’t expected that. His grey eyes went wide, and he hesitated before speaking, as if he believed she might be joking. “Really?”

She nodded. “Grandfather taught me everything I know about flowers, and lisianthus were his favourite, and _I_ liked everything he liked, so… He used to grow them in his garden back in Bavaria, too. Daphne and I would pick them and make flower crowns when we were little.” Thinking about it filled her with nostalgia.

Draco’s expression was understanding. “Your grandfather Hyperion?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.” She’d talked about him, of course. Grandad Hyperion, with his forest green eyes and scratchy beard. He’d been funny and kind and a little bit strange, and he’d been her whole world. She still missed him.

“I wish you could have met him,” she said, not for the first time. “He would have hated you, though. Not because you’re a Malfoy or anything like that,” she added quickly, because she knew what kind of thoughts would cross Draco’s mind, “but because he would’ve thought you weren’t good enough for me purely because you’re a man. He was weird like that.”

Hyperion Greengrass would have liked Draco for the same reasons Astoria did: his quiet honesty, his loyalty, his quick mind and dry wit. But he’d always been fiercely protective over his granddaughters—his ‘little stars’, as he’d liked to call them—, so he would have enjoyed making Draco squirm a bit, just to keep him on his toes. 

“And he wouldn’t _completely_ disapprove of you,” Astoria went on. “He always told Daphne and I not to trust boys who gave us roses, so I’d say you’ve passed that particular test.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I have?”

“With flying colours,” she assured him. “You get top marks for Valentine’s Day. For future reference, chocolate is also acceptable.”

He nodded. “And poetry?”

Oh, she’d love to see _that_. “Only if they’re mildly inappropriate limericks.”

He gave her a look, half pensive and half amused, that made her heart flutter. “Duly noted. Anything else?”

She pretended to consider it. “If you ever try to take me to Madam Puddifoot’s, I’ll have to murder you,” she said finally.

His lips twitched. “That seems fair.”

Silence fell between them, but there was no awkwardness—there never had been. Astoria’s eyes fell on the lisianthus. She would put them in her room, of course, on the bedside table. Daphne would tease her about it when she found out, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t embarrassed of how she felt about Draco, and she didn’t hesitate to talk about it with her sister, or even him.

And yet… How could she talk about _this_? This thoughtful gift she held in her hands, and everything it made her feel? How could she express that which could not easily be put into words?

Gratitude. Admiration. Love.

How clever of him, to choose a flower that represented everything so _neatly_ …

Astoria smiled and took a flower before depositing the bouquet at her side. She held it in her palm for a moment and gently stroked the petals with her fingertips, intensely aware of they way Draco was looking at her. With a soft smile, she leaned forward and tucked the lisianthus into the front pocket of his robes. The white stood out starkly against the dark fabric.

“There,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes. “For you. Because I want to express…” She leaned forward until her lips were brushing his jaw. “My gratitude…” She kissed his cheek. “My admiration…” Her lips ghosted over the corner of his mouth. “And my love, because I love you as much as you love me, if not more.”

“Astoria…” His voice had gone hoarse.

And suddenly his hand was on her chin, tilting it upwards, and then his lips were on hers, soft and gentle. It was the sort of kiss she knew she’d relive later, with her fingers brushing her mouth while she smiled to herself, her cheeks warm. It was slow and toe-curling and perfectly romantic.

And sweeter than roses, without a doubt.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to LittleRose13 for providing the prompt that inspired this fic! The actual dialogue didn't make it to the final draft, but this fic wouldn't exist without it ❤️And thank you to everyone else who supports my writing!!
> 
> Kudos and/or reviews are, as always, very much appreciated ❤️


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